Rituals
by Amatara
Summary: The story of one of those days during Lyta and G'Kar's travels where their truths clash - or do they?


**Thanks to:** mithen, for the beta.  
**Author's notes:** One of my disappointments with the show's ending was how little closure we were given for Lyta (also Lennier, but at least for him we're shown in Sleeping in Light that Delenn still honors his memory). Canon tells us she left Babylon 5 with G'Kar in 2262, had parted company with him by 2265, and supposedly died not very long after, in the explosion in Psi Corps headquarters near the end of the Telepath war. For some reason she wasn't even given a mention in the series' finale (the toast to absent friends? Nope, no Lyta there), which peeved me to no end. I couldn't write her a happy story, but at least I wanted her to have one that made sense for her.  
**Disclaimer:** Owned by JMS and Babylonian Productions, not me, alas.

* * *

There are rituals to be observed. She's learned that quickly, if not with much enthusiasm, having exchanged order for freedom recently enough that any form of it still makes her cringe. Deep down, she knows it makes sense to have rituals out here, in the deep of space, where the absence of voices does nothing to keep the demons at bay. Yet there's another part of her that _wants_ the demons, welcomes the chaos that's been raging inside her ever since –

Since when, really? Kosh's death, is what she would have said once, or Byron's – but that was before she knew better.

The truth is that she _is_ the chaos, a Vorlon-spawned swirl of power the scale of which she is only just starting to grasp. Oh, she never gives it free reign, of course. Something tells her that would strip her of all control, because she isn't ready to wield it, not yet. But some days, when she feels brave or reckless enough, she takes down the wall around that raw, pulsing, ill-fitting shape tucked away in a corner of her mind and lets it flow into her. The feeling is unceasingly alien, intense enough to be painful. She can't sustain the full force of it for more than a few minutes before she has to slam the wall in place again. But she keeps reaching for it anyway, because it dulls the anger and helplessness and melds them into that elusive sense of focus she craves so much right now.

If _that_ isn't irony, she doesn't know what is: all this power, stuck inside a puny shell of a spirit that, apparently, needs a purpose to stay whole.

She had a purpose in the Shadow war, and now Byron has left her with a new one. But it's erratic, all of it, flaring hot and bright one moment only to melt away whenever she turns her mind inward. It's why she needs this journey and its rituals, even though they don't suit her, or _soothe_ her, half as well as they do the Narn who is penning down his universe in the cabin opposite hers. The Narn who believes she should make peace with herself before finding her purpose. But he's wrong. What she needs to do is find that Vorlon part inside of her, find it and master it, and then the purpose will find itself.

For the time being, though, the change of pace is welcome, and the company is – unexpectedly fine, she thinks, putting down the brush to peer into the mirror and run both hands through the mass of freshly washed hair. Well, not _washed _in the traditional, soap-and-hot-water sense of the word, of course. The ship is far too Spartan to afford the luxury of a real shower. But the modern process has a pleasant enough result, leaving the strands warm and dry and much smoother than if moisture had been involved.

It's one of the odd consequences of taking this trip: the drifting back towards old habits, like spending time on her hairdo, because she has the hours to spare and it makes her forget herself for a while. She still remembers that first time G'Kar found her puttering about in the tiny bathroom. Somehow he seemed more taken aback by the sight of her juggling with combs, pins and brushes than he had ever been by her being a teep. Only later did she realize G'Kar might never have seen a woman put up her hair before. Narn women don't have much to fuss over in the way of hair, in any case – and even if they had, they probably wouldn't bother with it. As for the _Centauri _ladies G'Kar is rumoured to appreciate, well… shaving the scalp might be a delicate process, but once that's over with, there's really not much else to do, is there? She's glad she isn't Centauri, because she'd hate the prescribed lack of hair, not to mention the elaborate gowns, the social obligations, the cult of female subservience… Not to mention that spending weeks on end in the company of a Narn who finds Centauri women the most attractive in the universe (as he told her, once, mellowed by a particularly rich dinner) would be awkward, to say the least.

Deciding to go for nonchalant and loose – she loves the half-hearted curls that result from the washing process best when they're untied – Lyta pushes herself up from the wobbly seat, pulls her sweater more closely about her before hitting the door release. The wall of cold air that rushes in is enough to make her shiver, and she pauses only briefly to gather her gloves before striding out.

The gloves – she prefers not to think about them. She no longer needsthem for any practical purpose, because her powers are strong enough now to block almost everything. But out here in the void she feels naked without them, naked and twitchy and on edge, which, along with the anger still churning inside her, turned out too exhausting a combination. Eventually, she gave in and purchased a synthetic-woollen pair in a bazaar on one of the worlds they passed, hating herself for the weakness, because of course it's just reflex, Corps conditioning, nothing else. Soon, she tells herself; soon she will be able to do without them again. For now, she will simply have to cope.

The smell of spice and roast meat reaches her even before she turns the corner to the galley. She wasn't expecting G'Kar back so soon, thinking him still in his cabin in meditation (or prayers; she's never sure which, only that there _is_ a difference). This must be one of those times when prayer failed to work its magic. It's another of those little facts she never knew about him: that he loves food, and the whole ritual around it, and the making and sharing of a meal never fails to relax him. She's a terrible cook, really, so she's perfectly happy to have him in charge.

"Ah, good!" G'Kar exclaims without glancing up, and she hears his voice bend with the echo of a smile. "I was waiting for you – after all, the preparation of _ka'turi_ stew is not meant as a solitary endeavour." Stepping in, she watches him bend over the plain-metal table to dice the dried Gaim peppers – the ones for which he scoured the entire last colony world they passed, or so it seemed to her at the time – before turning to face her. "Besides," he adds, the spotted cheeks dimpling, "those hands of yours look particularly fine when they're grinding spice. You aren't going to deprive me of that sight, are you?"

She throws him a pointed look, keeping her face carefully neutral as she peels off one glove, then the other, and stuffs both out of sight in a drawer. "Of course not," she replies coolly; "we have a deal, don't we? You cook, I show off my hands – couldn't be fairer." At which she finally allows her own eyes to smile, and reaches over for the second knife.

Rituals take many shapes, and this is by far the strangest they have; it's almost like a game between them, though the rules aren't fixed, and she never knows how he will play it this time. What's sure is that the gloves come off over dinner, his and hers both; and that he will make a pass at her, lightly, merrily, which she will deflect with the same measure of lightness. She doesn't quite understand how the thing became a habit – it started out as a joke, nothing more, a flirty G'Kar cajoling her to bare her hands one evening and invoking all kinds of philosophies in persuasion, until they'd both collapsed in a fit of laughter and ended up knocking the pot roast to the floor. It was the first time in months she had felt like that, free and unafraid and simply glad to be alive, and the rule – no gloves in the galley – was established that same day.

As for the flirting: that's G'Kar for you, she tells herself, and as long as he doesn't get serious about it, it's fine with her. Oh, not that he's _un_interested; if ever she'd decide to offer, she's betting he wouldn't refuse. But even so, it isn't really _her_ he wants. Maybe that's why she sticks to the ritual so faithfully. Even with her blocks up tight, she can feel he needsthose moments of closeness, not for anything to do with her, but just because… Well, honestly, she isn't sure why. She could find out whenever she wants, of course, even without him being aware. She'd probably have done it already, if the idea of breaking his trust – trust he had offered to her when no one else would – wasn't so unbearable.

"Did you get a message through to your contact?" he asks, startling her out of her reverie, and sure enough, there it is again, just a hint of melancholy poking through the suave exterior.

"Eventually," she nods, and starts to brush the crushed pepper seeds into a miniature pile. "I can't tell how many channels it got routed through, but there must have been a lot of them. Say what you want about Garibaldi: he's thorough. Paranoid, too, but I suppose that's a good thing in this case." She swipes the pile into her hand, turns and perches it over the meat stewing on the heater. "Do I put all of this in here?"

"Oh, feel free to," he answers, stone-faced. "Though if you're in any way attached to your taste buds, I would suggest only a quarter or so. I was told most humans find this rather strong."

After a moment's thought, she transfers about two-thirds into a container and sprinkles the rest across the stew. "There. Anything else?" She waits until G'Kar signals her no before squeezing past him and towards the other side of the table. For the umpteenth time, she fights the reflex to shove it out of her way like she's tried a dozen times before, with varying bruises as a result; the damn thing is bolted to the floor like everything on board. Just briefly, she wonders if there's a metaphor in that, before G'Kar surprises her by carrying on the conversation.

"When Mr. Garibaldi acts paranoid, there is usually a good reason," he says, thoughtful. "I would think he has more reasons now than earlier: a wife, a child on the way…" He trails off, as if wondering whether or not to go on. "He's protecting them as much as you, you know. If they track any of this back to him, I doubt his position is strong enough to –"

"He knew the terms when he agreed to them," she snaps, trying to work up a remnant of sympathy and finding that she can't; not now Michael has it all while she has nothing, except what resources she can pry from him. Glancing up, she can see G'Kar swallow back a reply, stopping himself only with an effort; they've had this conversation before, and it's never changed either of their minds. "The shipment's waiting on Deneb 4," she tells him, putting on her best back-to-business face. "I told Garibaldi's man we'd be arriving on schedule. He'll be there to meet us when we dock."

G'Kar pauses in stirring the meat, gives her a half-hearted nod. "If the engines hold out, we'll be there." A sigh, followed by that stubborn look she's starting to know quite well, the one that means he has a sermon bursting to come out, and ignoring him isn't going to help. "Lyta, it's not too late to reconsider," he begins, and she resists the temptation to interrupt, knowing it would only make things harder. "You know how I feel about this _shipment_: it's not the way. Not to mention those devices are not safe, even your contact admitted that, so –"

Something in the words stings like the truth it is, but she shrugs it away. "Yeah, well, that's a risk I'll have to take." The tabletop is cold under her hand, and she splays out her fingers to intensify the feeling, letting it calm her as she looks him in the eye. "I said you didn't have to come with me on this one, G'Kar, and I meant it. I could have taken a transport from our last stop –"

"No." The Narn cheeks tighten, and for a moment he looks sad as a ghost, sadder than she can bear, until the moment passes and he's simply G'Kar again. "I'm not leaving you to fend for yourself." He pulls in a breath, lifts the cooking pot from the stove to put it down before her, but doesn't sit down. Instead, he leans across the table and over the steaming dish, pausing to breathe in the scent before he continues, with renewed intensity, "There are other ways, Lyta. You believe there is just one path open to you, but you're only _looking _in one direction; turn your head, and you will see another, and another –" The voice catches, picks up again sounding a little strained. "Lyta, my world was laid to waste because of _one _man, who made all the wrong choices because he believed there was no turning back. Can't you see you're doing this for _all the wrong reasons_?" Another breath, sharper this time, while she's blinking, stunned, at his directness. "I have _been_ where you are now. I have fought for my cause, and risked everything, and I've been ready to kill, the guilty, the innocent, the responsible, it didn't matter who, and everything about it felt right, but it was all wrong, _all_ of it, because _anger_ is never –"

She's on her feet then, on the verge of rage or tears or something else she can't name, and for an instant she can feel her mind starting to lash out to him, the desire to hurt him so sharp that it drowns out all other sensation. He's right, damn him, he's _right, _but there's not a goddamn thing she can do about it – because the anger, it hits her, with all the suddenness of a trap clicking into place, is all that keeps her going now.

When she opens her eyes, she finds them dry, the rage at G'Kar gone, her head feeling oddly clear even though the rest of her is numb. "I _am_ going to do this, G'Kar," she hears herself say, wondering vaguely why her voice sounds so strange, flat and metallic and quite unlike her own. "I swore to myself I would bring down the Corps, and I'm going to go through with it, with or without your approval."

Blindly, she steps back from the table and makes it out of the room, slowing down only after long seconds, when she's convinced he isn't coming after her.

Turn left at the corner, five steps, then go right; she's followed this route so many times she could do it with her eyes shut, keeping time by the clang of her heels on the floorboards and the glare of cheap lamps sliding past. Maybe it's just the subjectiveness of memory, but the hallways of Babylon 5 – somewhere along the line she stopped referring to it as just "the station" – never seemed this inhospitable or bare, not even in those final weeks when it seemed the whole place was conspiring against her. As she keys open the steel-plated door to her cabin, she stuffs down a pang of loss at the thought of her old quarters, back when they were still a place to come home to. She never expected she would miss those knife-edge days at the height of the war, or the utter ignorance of what she was and who the Vorlons turned her into. Still, the truth is things _were_ simpler then, and sometimes – just sometimes, mind you – she catches herself wishing… but no, no. Go down that path, and she really _is_ lost.

Better to focus on reality instead: the cramped antechamber is freezing as usual, and her sleeping room only slightly less so. She kicks off her shoes, then burrows under the blankets without even bothering to take off her clothes. Silence envelops her like a palpable thing, and she suppresses a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. A mundane could never understand – hell, a _P12_ probably wouldn't understand – how unnatural this silence feels to her. She's been in deep space before on her own, including those days floating in a lifepod at the edge of Vorlon space, but none of that could have prepared her for experiencing it with these powers. Babylon 5, perched in the void as it was, was never truly quiet, the air always humming with background voices even with her blocks tucked close. Here, though, there's nothing to reach out for, nothing for her mind to brush up against. It's like she's a universe _within _the universe, expanding beyond her power to stop it, being stretched in all directions at once until all that's left of her are threads.

If it wasn't for G'Kar, she might have gone mad already. As it is, he's just one tiny buzz of life in a universe of silence, passing in and out of her mental vision like a biscuit dangled before a child. At times it takes all the strength she has to keep up those blocks, not to let them slip for just one moment – but whatever else she cannot give him, she believes she owes him that, at least. Besides, with just the two of them, it _would _be madness.

Some warmth has begun to creep back into her bones, and she uncurls slowly, moving to sit cross-legged between the mound of blankets. A strand of hair has worked its way into her mouth and she tugs it away absent-mindedly, wondering if she could do it tonight. There's another ritual, one she's taken to recently, that for some reason works only when she's frustrated or furious – her mind seems to grow sharper then, that Vorlon swirl inside of her easier to grasp. There's nothing to it, really; all she needs to do is open the doors between it and her, and cast it out into the void, letting it soar across systems and nebulae and planets, questing, seeking, while the part of her that is still Lyta is swept along in its wake. If she concentrates, she can almost pretend it's Kosh's back she's riding on, Kosh keeping her safe, until just for a moment the emptiness stops stifling her, and she feels she is controlling _it_ instead of the other way around. Sometimes she touches a presence out there: an inhabited world or a space station, the minds aboard just too far out of reach to make out individual thoughts. Once, she even sensed a pilot in a ship – a furtive, nervous mind, the mind of a smuggler, maybe, or someone on the run like she was – but she'd been forced to pull back before she could learn anything. Tonight, perhaps…

She breathes in deeply, pulling icy air into her lungs and letting the sting sharpen her senses. The sliver of Vorlon – _of Kosh_, she thinks, willing herself to believe it – is perched in its corner, waiting, it almost seems, for her to find it. Just one thought and it comes flowing out, sending warm tendrils through nerves and across synapses, filling her, stirring, growing inside her until she wonders how it's possible she isn't bursting out of her skin by the sheer force of it, which is when she lets it go.

The first moment is always one of dizziness, of being pulled in a direction she can't even see, and the part of her that's still capable of reason knows that she's passed out; that somewhere back there, her body has toppled over like a puppet with its strings cut. Just for a fraction of a second, she feels protective towards that body, fights down a surge of fear as she's pulled away from it – but then she's flying, arms wide, the universe unfolding beneath her like a hot bubble of air, with her expanding all around it, keeping every bit of it tucked inside her as she floats. There's a planet near, she thinks, and cranes her neck to see it, but it's already zipped behind her; here, a binary star, but no sign of life; there, the bloated shadow of a red dwarf, a world in ruins, and she bites back disappointment at the emptiness of it all.

Her arms are getting tired, tired and sore, which is absurd because out here she _has _no arms, but still it's unmistakable, the sense of being stretched too far, of muscles being pulled beyond their reach. She knows what it means: she's straining herself, it's time to pull back and retreat, now she still has the strength for it. Reluctant, she's starting to fold in her wings – _Kosh's _wings, Byron's wings, hers, all of those universes' inside her – but no, not yet, just a little further… Down there, maybe, one more system and then back, towards her body that's still –

_Where? Where is it?_

She flails wildly, looking for that thread back down, but – _No, no, it's here. It _has _to be… Kosh? _But there is no Kosh, just her and silence and darkness, only she can't find herself again, can't find anything except that hurtling nothingness yawning around her, and in a moment of clarity, she knows she _knew _she could die here before she even opened this door, knew it and didn't care one way or the other. The universe is no longer a part of her. Instead she's spinning wildly, feeling sparks of minds flash by her at last, but they're racing by too fast to catch now, and she's starting to close her eyes against it, starting to let go, until –

A mind. A _person. _Just one, but warm and solid and larger than life. She grasps it in reflex more than anything else, the impact hitting her – _and it_ – like a sledgehammer, hard enough that she almost lets go again, but then she's clawing her way up, up, through tangles of memories, sharp and biting memories of hatred and betrayal that might as well been hers, jumbled memories of visions and Vorlons and enemies, thoughts of whips and brivari and death and pledges and visions and departures and parchment and spices and –

"G'_Kar?_"

_I'm breathing_, she gulps, clutching at alien fabric as air sears her lungs – or maybe she's not, maybe it's just him doing the breathing, and she's died and caught outside her body with her mind half-stuck in his. But she's sick to her stomach, too, or _he _is; in any case, the feeling is sharp enough to be real, rather than any leftover bits of a brain that was torn to pieces.

Faintly, she stirs inside his consciousness, fighting the urge to pull away too abruptly. She can feel nails digging into her neck, deep enough to have drawn blood, and knows those are _her_ hands on _him_, because _his_ are gloved and cautious, perched somewhere between her shoulder blades and the small of her back. Her head is still spinning, but not nearly as much as a moment ago.

"It's – I'm letting go now," she gasps, vocalizing because 'casting would be utterly inappropriate now. "Don't fight it; it will only take a… There." And – yes, her mind is her own once again.

Caught in an embrace that feels stifling now the mental link has dropped, she has to force herself not to rush _that _escape either, give G'Kar a few more seconds to gain control. Already, those little spaces her mind had cleared for him are fading, and to her surprise, the sensation is less one of relief than of loss. For a moment all she wants is to have it back, until G'Kar says her name and breaks the spell.

"Lyta –" Sounding shocked, for the first time she can remember. "What were you –"

She has to struggle a little to break away, his arms still frozen into some kind of stunned limbo, matched by the look in his eyes. "G'Kar, I didn't mean…" she trails off, tries again. "I swear, I'd never –"

"Lyta, your heart stopped."

He almost makes it sound reproachful, the red of his irises hard enough in the lamplight that it's all she can do not to flinch. Then he blinks, and the eyes turn soft again.

"You were… clear as water," he whispers, mixed wonder and horror in the tone. "Calling, right there in my mind, and it was…" a long beat, filled by a sigh. "It was _terrifying, _like the cry of someone drowning, or in the throes of some great loss, or…" Another shudder, and she knows he is remembering – not just the facts but _all_ of it, her panic and fear and confusion still hovering at the edge of his mind. "You weren't breathing when I found you." Voice ragged, and he sways a little, hands bracing themselves on the edge of the mattress. She pulled out too fast, she thinks with a pang; she should have smoothed down the edges first.

"Aftereffects of the scan," she mutters, answering his unspoken question. "It's because I wasn't in control when – when I went in. No surprise there."

"Is that… how it always feels?" He shivers, and there's something dark and painful in his tone, something telling her he's not just asking out of curiosity. An echo of memory too, not quite sharp enough to place: an empty corridor, bloodied gloves beating down on too-soft skin, mind burrowing in thoughts not his own, and somewhere, a flash of white and the flapping of wings –

"I don't know," she says, snapping herself out of it with an effort. "I guess – it's different for everybody. And anyway, once you're used to it, it hardly feels –" Another flash, clearer now, and suddenly she can see the face, remember the moment as if it was _her_, not G'Kar, with the blood on his hands. Soon enough, there will be blood on hers too, she thinks, but pushes it down. "Here, let me..." She bites her lip, tries again. "I can fix it, if you want."

"No." Shivering again, but the steel is back in his eyes. "No, I want to keep it. I think – it's fitting, in a way. Oh yes, most definitely fitting." He chuckles softly, caught in some weird place between anguish and laughter, before he shakes it off and turns those ember eyes on her.

She knows what's coming, of course. She knows so much about him now – which is why she doesn't even try to stop him.

"Lyta, I don't know what you were trying to do just now, but… please, do not have so little regard for your own frailty." Long beat, and she doesn't need telepathy to see the concern in his face. "You're going to let this destroy you, and I don't intend to let it –"

"There's nothing you could have done," she blurts out.

He stares. "_What_?"

"Amb– _Emperor _Mollari. There was nothing you could have done for him, G'Kar. You know that. You're just not letting yourself believe it."  
For a moment, he looks as defenceless as she's ever seen him, blinking up at her with confusion in his eyes.

Careful, tender almost, she reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. "You couldn't save him, could you?" she repeats, surprised at how gentle her own voice is still capable of being. "No matter how much you cared about him. If there was anything you could undo, anyone you could go back for – it would be him. And now, because you couldn't save _him_ – you're trying to save _me_ instead. To stop from feeling helpless. But you see – I'ma different person, G'Kar. I may not _want _to be saved."

"That's not true," he grates, backing away from her. "If there's anyone's fate I could undo – it would be that of an _innocent._ Like _Na'Toth_. She spent two years in a cell – _two _entire _years ! _– without having done anything to deserve it. If there was anyone I should have –"

A smile is tugging at the corners of her mouth, but she keeps it at bay. "It's not the innocent that most need to be saved, G'Kar." Saying it, she suddenly feels larger than herself, larger and wiser and not altogether so lost, and as she looks at him she knows he's seeing it, too.

"Lyta, the man I told you about… who almost destroyed my homeworld because he believed it was his destiny… That was Mollari. And he paid a terrible price for it." He swallows, Narn cheekbones jumping furiously while he does. "But you know the worst thing? That it could have been _me_ instead of him. Or – it could be _you. _You believe no price is too high to pay for your people's freedom, and I understand – but the universe has a way of finding that one price we did not wish to pay. I would hate to see it asked from you."

The smile tugs harder, and this time she allows it to surface, just barely. She's so much like he once was – believer, terrorist, warrior, however you want to call it – and yet so different as well. "Your people are free now." She shrugs, and the words don't even taste bitter anymore. "It's not so hard to let go then."

He shakes his head. "I let go long before they were free, Lyta. But of course – I cannot force you to believe that if you don't."

She'd believe him, of course, if she could afford it. In her heart she knows he's telling the truth, that there is another way, but she doesn't want to find it. She'll die if she does. "I can't," she whispers. "I can't let go, and I don't want to. Maybe that makes me a lesser person than you, G'Kar, but that's how it is. And – I'm sure there are still others for you to save."

He nods, reluctant, and even though she knows she's won, she feels strangely unvictorious. "All right." Sighing, he rubs at his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted again. "All right, just – tell me what you want, then. What you need me to do."

"Drop me off on Deneb 4 – don't wait for me after. You've brought me this far, and I'm grateful… But I think it's time for me to walk the rest of the way on my own."

When he gets up to leave, she isn't sure if he looks relieved or crushed, or both. Watching him retreat towards the doorway, something about him – the slump in his shoulders, maybe, or the way his jaw clenches as he averts his head – makes her own chest tighten, and she's calling out before she even realizes why.

"G'Kar – stay. Just this once."

There's pain in his eyes as he turns back, pain and surprise and something a little bit like wanting. "Lyta, there's no need for you to –"

He thinks she's doling out charity; of course he does. Any other night, that would have been true, but not this time. Not even though she can see, with perfect clarity, that despite the flirts, the conquests, the easy charm, he's never slept with a woman out of love. Nor with a friend, she thinks – though there is a glimpse, sharp and unbidden – but she shuts it down before it becomes clear. This isn't about _him_ now, or about selflessness, however much she might want it to be. Every day she feels less like a person and more like something else, something dark and indescribable, and for a moment, she just wants to know what it is to be human again, nothing more. To have some peace, and forget herself, and be with a friend – the last friend she may have.

"No charity," she tells him, and the tears on her face let him know she means it. "Please. Stop thinking. Let's just – stop."


End file.
